


Books and Bonding

by WhumpTown



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29170851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown
Summary: some bittersweet father son bonding
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Jack Hotchner
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Books and Bonding

Jack is laying upside on the couch, the way Hotch has probably told him a thousand times before not to. So that his ass is propped up where a back would normally go and his back is where a butt should be. He’s letting the blood rush to his head because it, direct quote, “help him think better”. At this current time and place, Hotch is too distracted trying not to burn cookies in the oven and keeping pasta stirred. So he doesn’t waste his breathe telling his son, again, not to sit like that. 

“You just don’t understand,” Jack sighs wistfully. 

Hotch has managed to raise one strange kid. He’s seventeen-years-old and spends more time ranting and raving about books than girls (or, hell, boys). Hotch doesn’t even know where they stand on that. They’ve discussed gender and sex, in more of a book sort of way. Jack had gone on about chosen expression differing from biological traits and Hotch can’t even remember why that was. He just knows what followed it was The Hunger Games sequels because that had prompted a discussion on riots and Hotch’s personal beliefs on the government.

There’s never a dull moment.

Pausing in his pasta stirring, Hotch takes a moment to correctly process the rant he’s just been on the receiving end of. Rubbing his palm into his eye, he wonders if it would be simpler to talk about gender expression again. At least then he knew what to say. 

Now they’re… debating, what? Identities? 

Raising his son around the team might have been a bit of a mistake. Jack seems to consume the parts of the team that Hotch has always struggled with the most. Reid’s quickly devolving, circling rants about anything and nothing at all. Emily’s obsession with books that require a strange and open mind to the natural progression of the world. Fucking woodwork from Morgan. Where does that even come from?

Humming to himself, he collects what he thinks is a good response. “The point,” he asks, glancing towards the living room. Waiting for Jack to pop up and he does, resting his chin on the cushion as he watches his father. “The point is that there is a danger in being anyone but yourself, yes?” 

Jack nods, “essentially.”

Hotch hums, nodding his head. He might be able to remember the title of the book, Jack probably mentioned at some point, he does understand Vonnegut. Emily got Jack a collection of his work for Christmas last year after the two made an entire day of picking apart Margret Atwood’s “Handmaid’s Tale”. Of course, he’d also read the book but it was far more interesting to sit back and observe the two of them. 

“What does that mean for you?” Hotch asks. He means it. 

It seems to do the trick. To scratch whatever itch Jack wasn’t finding on his own. He deflates, sinking as he thinks about it. 

Seventeen-years. That’s how long it’s taken for Hotch to realize he’s a better father than he’d thought. Better than he could have ever imagined. He’d been terrified when he’d first been handed Jack. Shaking, the nurses had taunted him for that. He’s a federal agent who was in a national news making explosion, Boston, and he’s afraid of a newborn baby that weighs six pounds and some change. 

But he wasn’t afraid of Jack. He was afraid of those eyes looking back at him. The same eyes as his and the same eyes as his father. 

He and Jack don’t have a complicated relationship, not the one that plays out so tauntingly on the television in seemingly every movie. Not once, has he ever raised his voice or, God-forbid, even his hand. And Jack is pretty normal considering. Just a standard kid making his way through the world and the best part is– he tears up a little just standing here thinking about it– Jack always comes home. 

Hotch never had a home. 

A dad. 

“I don’t know who I am.”

Hotch blinks quickly, shaking his head. He’s not expecting that. 

Jack has moved from the couch, now aimlessly walking circles in the kitchen. He’s barefoot and in a sweatshirt, Hotch knows he stole from his closet. He’s worn the knees out of his jeans and the bottoms are rolled up. They’re thrifted and his favorite. 

The melancholy hits Hotch right in the chest. That stupid sweatshirt. He’d hid it in his closet because he can’t bear to part with it but he can’t stand to look at it. Haley used to wear it far more than he ever did. 

For every part of Haley left in their son– the sandy blond hair, love for complicated books, and pacing that has always driven Hotch mad– there are pieces of Hotch as well. The lanky body and hair that can only be contained with an unGodly amount of gel and a skilled hand. 

Where does Hotch even begin to explain the in and outs of identity? That this half-way through puberty child of his is built out of ancient love. The kind not meant to last but hurt. That it’s never as simple as “I am”, it is everything. It’s not the sum of a whole. There is nothing set in place and Jack will change and change again before he even realizes it. He’ll hate parts and cling to others desperately but there will never be an answer. Yet, every guess he’ll come up with will be right. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Hotch assures him softly. This will make one hell of a conversation to have with Dave some time but for right now, it’s… complicated and he doesn’t have an answer. “You’ll figure it out,” Hotch affirms with enough confidence that they both buy it. Hotch doesn’t doubt for a second that his off the walls bookworm of a child will come to understand who he is. Today’s just not the day and that’s understandable. “For now, go pick a movie and I’ll bring you some macaroni, alright?”

Jack looks like he wants to push that. He doesn’t. A part of can rationalizes that his father doesn’t know the answer either and… A pang of sadness and a bit of fear hits his chest, his dad is tired. Too tired for the kind of long-winded conversation that Jack’s brought into play. 

It’s a strange fear that he’s carried his entire life. Mortality is a hell of a thing to become aware of. 

Jack curls up on the couch, he’s going to milk the hell out of movie night. Eating dinner on the couch is a rare gift and he’s excited by the thought of breaking a rule… sort of. 

“This the book,” Hotch asks two bowls in hand but stopped to bend and scowl at the book cover on the coffee table. 

Jack nods his head, taking his bowl and freeing one of Hotch’s hand so that he can pick the book up and examine it. “You can read it,” he offers, scoping too hot macaroni straight into his mouth. As one does, he proceeds to sit with his mouth open and look obscene as his mouth burns. He then follows it by another mouthful, as if that one will have magically cooled down. 

Hotch puts it back down and takes note of the title. He’ll read it and then he’ll ask Emily about it. He settles down on the couch like he’s got any intent on watching this movie. In reality, he’s going to eat maybe half of his dinner and fall asleep before the rising action of the movie can even be established. 

“What’re we watching?”

Jack smirks and hits play, “gonna be honest, no idea. It has Keira Knightley in it so that was the appeal.” He glances over at Hotch, knowing that his father has no idea who the actress in mind is but he won’t ask. Not for reasons guided by ego but because it won’t matter.

By the time she comes on screen, Hotch is asleep.

Without comment, Jack pulls the throw blanket behind them down. He takes the bowl out of Hotch’s hands, setting on the coffee table, and covers Hotch up. With a sigh, he lays his head down on his father’s thigh. 

Hotch wakes just enough to realize what’s happening and wraps his arm around Jack’s chest, keeping him close. 

Knees pulled to his chest, Jack finds himself falling asleep too. For a moment, tears sting his eyes as he realizes that his dad is never going to carry him to bed again. He’ll never fall asleep on the couch and wake up half-wrangled up in his dad’s arms like a ragdoll too tired to protest but content beyond means. 

He just wishes he could go back and appreciate that one last time.


End file.
